Gil, from up the street, plays with sticks. It’s his hobby. It’s the thing that keeps him from being a religious nut. If it weren’t for the sticks, I think he would have passed over into cult-dom a long time ago.
We had our estate-wide garage sale the other day, even though only a fourth of the homes have garages. Some folks went so far as to put a sign at the entrance to their carport, “Carport Sale” they read. A lifetime of being right makes one just gotta be right, I guess.
The Estates puts a classified notifying the surrounding communities of our multi-mobile junk/treasure sale in the Daily Rag. Folks come from all over the inland area to scarf up the knickknacks of dowagers who don’t wish to dust them anymore or who are mad at their kids and decide they’re not gonna get these treasures in the will. I suspect about half the undocumented/illegal population of southern California shows up and are summarily disappointed there are no baby clothes or cribs for sale.
Mostly, the treasure is stuff bought in the sixties or seventies and was quality furniture, appliances, kitchen-ware or household goods at the time. Now it’s taking up space in a closet that needs to be thinned out or the “kids” have delivered the ultimatum, “Mom, you need to get rid of this couch. It’s so seventies. I’m glad the neighbors don’t see it.” Of course, the neighbors may have their own set of seventies stuff that’s lasted a good long time and served extremely well too.
I remember toying with the idea of buying a certain home in Albuquerque once. It was owned by an Old Maid who was an aid to a state senator or something. He had been in New Mexico politics for ages and she, this unclaimed blessing, had served him for decades. He was about to retire, explicably, so was she. She had kept this home in Albuquerque for weekends away from Santa Fe and the capitol rat-race. Now she was purchasing a condominium or a humble adobe in Taos and she wanted to sell the ABQ home.
We loved the patio covered with the limbs and long-eared leaves of the giant birds-of-paradise. The front yard was covered with stately oaks. The lawn was impeccable and seasonal flowers were in abundance. The inside of the home was another story. Everything was straight out of the forties. Everything. I could see Gary Cooper lounging on the flowering couch, the bird of paradise theme had been brought inside to almost everything, even the dining room chairs. Claudette Colbert and Fred Murray could have lived here. The master bedroom had a mural on one wall of what, I would discover later, was a perfect painting of one of the famous falls on the road to Hana. Somehow we fell in love with this house, but it was going to take all we could afford to buy it. There would be nothing left over for changes. We discerned it would take ten years of “raises” to our income to get to a place we could afford any remodeling or the addition of a new theme to the home. So we backed off.
I tell you that little aside to give you an idea of what might be lurking in the homes of older folks in the senior mobile home estates. Certainly not the forties, but most certainly the seventies come through as a revolving theme. I digress.
So here they set. The accoutrements of a life high-on-the-hog in the seventies when children were being raised and sent to college and to war. Here set the remains of a dramatic and traumatic downsizing when a couple, or single, decided to give up the big yard, the air conditioning bills and the upkeep of a four to five bedroom home they no longer needed. Here also sets the “Oh, Mom’s gonna love this for Christmas” gifts that weren’t quite as embraced as the kids had hoped.
And here sits Gil, purveyor of extraordinary sticks. An indefatigable man who doesn’t know what it means to “do nothing.” His body can’t keep up with his thoughts anymore, but he sure as hell gives it all he’s got. He’s a reader and a thinker. I’ve already shared books with him and he can’t wait to give me a synopsis and personal criticism of each I’ve loaned him. He especially loves the ones about the Dismal Trade, my vocation, the funeral business.
So, Gorgeous makes her way to the fifty or so paperbacks on carport display, looking to increase her mystery collection. Enroute, she moves a cylinder of canes to pass by. One seems to reach out to her like one piece of velcro to another. She can’t shake it off and it ends in her hands. Gil speaks across the crowded driveway, “That’s a forty-dollar cane, but you can have it for free.” Now, Gorgeous loves sales, but she becomes absolutely orgasmic over the word “free” when uttered by a seller.
It is my estimation this cane was made from the unholy wedlock of a persimmon/eucalyptus/myrtlewood orgy in the dark distant past of incestual vegetation. I called it “gnarly” and I wasn’t trying to be a beach dude when I said it. It really is gnarly. There are twists and bends that defy explanation, but when you place it to the ground, it automatically spins to the proper position. The dang thing is so well-balanced, it has reminded me there is a God and He has a plan.
Gorgeous is now the proud owner of an original “Gil” cane. It’s far too beautiful, far too functional, far too regal to be called a cane or an irish shillelagh. We call it “Whimsical”.
UPDATE: Gil stopped by yesterday and gifted Gorgeous with a uniquely beautiful hiking staff. Now we’re set for vacation!!
